


The Distance Between

by AuKestrel



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), due South
Genre: 6 Degrees of Due South, Blow Jobs, Crossover, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Semi-Public Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuKestrel/pseuds/AuKestrel
Summary: Joe Dick. Benton Fraser. A dive bar in Chicago.Set after Victoria's Secret and before Hard Core Logo... 'nuff said. Too much, maybe.Originally published in 2001.





	1. If that's all it takes

**Author's Note:**

> First published in 2001.
> 
> Original Notes:  
> 
> 
> Rowan Fairchild made the Joe/Fraser graphic for me last November. It's spent a lot of time as my wallpaper since then. She's got so many talents, all piled on top of an amazing brain, and I feel very privileged to have her as a friend, never mind a beta. realitycek, what would my music library be without you? Mia, thanks for helping me pick up the ball; you're astonishing. Kellie, as usual, was with me beginning to end: you're a stoic friend. Aral, you're a trouper: helluva first exposure to beta, this thing... Kalena, all the lime Jello you can eat, my friend; thanks for your patience.
> 
> They don't belong to me - oh, how I wish they did - and if they did, I'd set 'em free.
> 
> To Mia, for logic structures above and beyond the call of duty.

**The Distance Between**

© 2001 [AuKestrel](mailto:aukestrel52@gmail.com)

 

 _Fall in, sink or swim, to the bottom and you'll stick_  
_Down in the sunshine, the distance between..._  
_What did you do, who did you fool_  
_Just trying to get through, yeah_  
_Completely consumed, you're coming unglued_  
_You're just a cartoon, yeah_

"Marigold," Teeth & Tissue, the Headstones

 

 **I** push open the door and stand for a moment, inhaling the familiar smell of stale urine. Once in a while there's an artificial floral scent: a vain attempt at air fresheners, too few and too sporadically delivered to make any real difference.

I thought it would get easier as time passed. Physically, of course, it has. Mentally, though... mentally I have to remind myself every time I walk through the dark and smoke-filled bars, every time I sink to my knees and try not to gag on the overpowering stench of urine... then, now, yes, I have to remind myself each time what I am doing and why. Repentance. Punishment. Control. Certainly these are the primary components of my game with my soul, played out in these rounds of empty, meaningless, faceless sex. Anonymity... for my protection and... theirs.

I cross to my usual stall, close and lock the door, and sink to my knees to wait, only too aware of the parallels, familiar patterns: repentance, punishment, absolution. Repentance, indeed; punishment, in truth; absolution, in absentia. The sins of the flesh are made manifest here, and yet these are the least of my sins and are counted, inversely, as the worst, the ones for which I would burn in hell, if it existed.

I feel a brief moment of yearning, sternly and quickly suppressed: it would be a luxury to have someone else decide for me what is wrong and right, to have someone else decide my punishment, to have someone else inflict it. For that reason, of course, the belief in such a person, in such a place, in such a system, is in itself a weakness, is further proof that man cannot in fact direct his own destiny, does not deserve his free will. "Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."

My first conscious memory of those words, penned by another Ben, is hazy, but I know I was quite young: my mother was still alive. Of course, my grandparents were certainly not talking about religion; but I heard the quote often and by the time I went to live with them, I had already memorised it, only to forget it, completely, thirty-odd years later, leaving me in a place where I was willing to sacrifice, and would have sacrificed, not only liberty but honour, and all else I held dear to kneel at the feet of weakness and desire in the name of love.

And so I kneel here, in both a literal and figurative sense, where it all began. In this place, where redemption is probably no more than a fantasy and there is instead only repentance and punishment, it ends. Or, rather, continues. More fitting, in fact, that it should continue, time without end, amen: the crown of thorns is mine and mine alone. For many reasons, I find the opiate of the masses seductive - unconditional love and forgiveness in return for mere belief is in many ways a simple choice. That path is not mine, however, as much, as desperately, as I may want it to be.

I shift my weight from one knee to the other, the ache in them recalling to me my reason for being here. There is a reward in this, anticipation, and I try not to allow myself to feel it: pleasure, of any sort, is not why I am here. The first time I did this, almost by accident, a silent and embarrassed witness to a similar act, one stall over, and an honest mistake made by the next visitor as I knelt, ashamed and confused, embarrassed and, shockingly, aroused, trying to cool my heated face, my heated flesh, against the thick and cool metal divider, envy and panic and fear and an almost palpable sadness spiraling upwards into a darkness above me... I had had sex with men before, most notably at the Depot, almost as impersonal: two male animals, fumbling and furtive, seeking things we couldn't put a name to; later, I put a name to it, but the name ended up being as false as the woman; and I looked back then, look back now, on those long-ago days with wistfulness and even more regret: there is much, after all, to be said for simple urges and desire unclouded by emotion.

I opened my eyes and saw, three inches away, an erect penis, throbbing visibly, the tip already silvering with the liquid of desire, framed by a wall of metal, blank and unfeeling... and I surrendered, a confused attempt, perhaps, to remind myself to what depths physical desire, and willful blindness, had brought me, and I refused, then and since, to allow my body the release it craved; afterwards the recipient slipped twenty dollars under the divider and brought home to me the truth of what I am, what I almost became for... her. I left the money on the floor that night and have since wondered if I should have taken it after all, to drive home the point: souls come cheap. But it's too late now. The past is irretrievable.

It's a quiet night. The club was less than a third full. I close my eyes and remain motionless. The wait is anticipation stretching into boredom. I have time to reflect: the pain in my knees, cold hard tile beneath them; the pain in my back, the bullet wound healed nicely, the bullet still lodged like a snake, twisted and coiled and ready to strike, a fitting analogy for me on many levels; the pain in my heart, of course, with nowhere to go and no way to appease an endless appetite for remorse and guilt except in penance, except in the re-establishment of control, except in -

The door opens. One man enters; from the smell of him, he's evidently a heavy smoker. He passes my stall and pauses; oddly enough, he chuckles.

The neighboring door rattles and then I see black leather boots and leather pants. Without preamble, he too sinks to his knees, his hands, heavy with odd silver rings, sliding down his legs. The smell of cigarette smoke and beer that accompanies him is a welcome change from the usual odors overlying the bathroom.

"My lucky night after all." His voice is raspy and deep and oddly compelling. One hand disappears; I hear, seconds later, the flick of a lighter and the acrid smell of a freshly lit cigarette. "Chicago groupies suck, man. I gotta tell you. I mean, if they literally sucked that wouldn't be a problem, you know?"

I'm not used to talking; I don't encourage it. It destroys anonymity, for one thing; and for another, it's unnecessary: usually murmured words of instruction are all that are needed to conduct these sexual transactions, businesslike, impersonal, terse.

"So do you fuck or suck?" he asks, still sounding amused.

"Both; but due to the physical limitations of our surroundings, the latter is generally wiser."

There's a long silence; I hear him take two or three drags on his cigarette. Then he laughs. "Are you for real? 'Physical limitations?' What are you, some kind of college professor?"

"Not at all."

He mimics me. "Not at all. You're Canadian."

"As are you. That has no bearing on the matter at hand-"

"What are the odds of two Canadians ending up on the floor of a dive bar's bathroom in Chicago?"

"Roughly calculated-"

"All right, College Boy, turn it the fuck off."

"You brought it up."

Silence for another moment and then he laughs, a startlingly loud, deep sound, a trifle rusty-sounding, as if he hasn't done so in a long time. "True. Very true. So." I hear another inhalation of his cigarette and then a long exhale and then a small hiss as his cigarette is discarded in the toilet bowl. "You wanna suck me?"

Strangely my first response, quickly stifled, is, "No." It takes me a few seconds to realise why: he has moved from the anonymous stranger category, now, to someone I could meet on the street, someone I could recognise, someone who is not... safe.

He's unzipping his pants; clearly his question was rhetorical. He grunts, a small exhalation of relief, as his erect penis emerges, stark, pale against the dull black gleam of leather. He slides further under the divider and strokes himself once, twice. I lean in, anticipating the taste in spite of my stern reminders to myself that this is not for pleasure, not mine, at any rate.

His penis is warm and heavy, springing from a thick mass of wiry hair that extends up his partially bared stomach. Like me, he is uncircumcised: an uncommon sight in this American city filled with American conformity.

He makes an explosive sound in his throat and his hands tighten on his legs as I begin to suck. I am skilled at this; practice has made me better, since time is generally of the essence. Given my unofficial partner's reaction to my appearance, in the course of duty, in a nightclub of questionable repute, I cannot begin to imagine his reaction if I were to be discovered here. Yet I do it; outside his district but still I do it. I must; there is no other way to repent, no other punishment so fitting, no quarter given here for my humanity or my sins.

He's thrusting hard now, stifling sounds in his throat, apparently aware of the need for some discretion. I succumb to a brief moment of temptation and allow my fingers to enfold his scrotum and stroke up and behind it. He writhes, thrusts again, and grunts in a harsh, broken whisper: "You swallow?"

That's an unexpected question and throws me off balance. The question is a rare occurrence. In point of fact, I usually don't, and it is sometimes a small battle between myself and men determined to get what they want when they want it. However, because I am enjoying this tonight and must be punished, I step up the rhythm of my mouth and hand and the question becomes moot seconds later, the bitter flood quelling the bile in my throat. His hands grip the underside of the divider and he slides even further towards me, jerking hard into my mouth, the spasms accompanied by guttural, profane syllables.

"Jesus," he says moments later, pulling himself back. "You beat most chicks to hell and back. Jesus." He sags briefly; I hear his head thud against the other side of the divider and I lean against my side of the divider in unconscious empathy. Another flick, followed by the acrid tang of butane and tobacco smoke, and he sighs on the exhale. "You?"

"We're finished," I say abruptly, leaning back.

Another pause, then a not unexpected question: "You get off already?"

"This is not about me."

"Oh. I get it." Another pause. "How much?"

Abruptly I get to my feet: punishment tonight in spades; perhaps I will rest easy for a few hours before awakening to stare at the ceiling for endless minutes. I am gone from the bathroom and perhaps even the bar by the time he has, no doubt, gotten to his feet. And I walk home swiftly through the dark, humid night, demons at my heels, their clamour temporarily muted.


	2. something i can't handle

**J** esus Christ.

Bastard.

He's gone before I even get zipped. Fuckin' weirdo. Maybe I'm lucky he didn't try to cut me or something.

I head out to the bar, one more beer for the road. Rest of the crew's gone; the roach motel's schizzy cable's got more going for it than a dive bar. Tomorrow and Saturday we're playing the Metro; this was a last-minute beats-staring-at-the-fucking-walls gig.

Weird fucker. I knock back two more beers, do a go-round with two guys hanging out in the doorway. Split lip feels good; pain and blood, that's what makes the world go round, and those two fuckheads won't forget that lesson any time soon. I buy a pint on the way to the motel, drink it down. A pretty good night, all in all.

Gig the next night's way better; people know me, come to see me, they like the new stuff. I only have to smash a beer bottle over one asshole's head. Crew sticks around after for a few rounds. I hit the can a few times, looking under the stalls out of curiosity: ain't no way, a city this size, but it's human nature to look. Best head I've gotten in years and that voice on top of it, kind that gets under your skin... no way the wrapper can be as good as the mouth and the voice, but all the same I wonder. Human nature, like I said. And the wrapper's not everything. Some wrappers look good, look you right in the eye and lie until you're beating a blue tattoo on their face, and then keep lying after.

They head back to the motel in a beat up taxi; me, I hit the streets. It's a long walk, hot night, bad neighbourhood. No one hassles me, not even the bums. Death wishes ain't thick on the ground in Chicago.

I stop for a pint of whiskey and light a smoke outside the store. Couple guys walk past me but they don't make eye contact. Smart. Another guy, brown leather jacket, T-shirt, big white dog at his heels, walks by. He looks me right in the eye. Looks like a pussy: pretty boy, pretty face, pretty mouth, prettier than... prettier than most other fuckers. But he's not scared. Looks me in the eye, yeah, gives me a nod. I shake my head, walk by him. He stops dead and I hear him sniff, like I smell bad.

Oh yeah. I can go another round or two. I look over my shoulder and he's still staring at me. I stare back, hair on my neck prickling. This is a big fucking city... but that face could, should, go with that voice. Only one way to find out. "You want a piece of me?"

He shakes his head and starts to look away. "My mistake," he says, all whipped dog pussy boy. "I thought -"

"Hot damn. It's the College Boy." He jerks back around at that, his eyes narrowing. "Hey. How's tricks? You on the prowl?" Good gig, good night. They go hand in hand more often than you might think and my good night just got a whole lot better: mouth plus voice and not a plain brown wrapper in sight.

His face goes from surprise to blank in about point three seconds. Oh, yeah, been there, seen that. Always fun to play these games. I'm already getting hard.

He straightens up, stick right up his ass. His eyes go like ice, voice is even colder. "Your mistake."

"You on the prowl?" I say again, and blow smoke in his face.

"No," he snaps.

"Too bad. How's tricks?"

"I have no interest in continuing this conversation."

"It's not conversation I'm interested in, College Boy."

He gives his head a little shake, like he's clearing his ears, like he can't believe what he just heard. "Wh-why?" he asks and he really sounds like he means it.

I laugh and he looks even more startled, eyes get bigger. "You owe me." I turn, start heading back to the motel. I don't look back: got to keep him guessing.

"I owe you?" he repeats, and his voice is close behind me.

"So if you're not on the prowl, what are you doing? Done?"

"Walking," he says, his voice all hard and remote again. "What do you mean, I owe you?"

"Works both ways, College Boy. So one way or the other, I figure you owe me."

"That makes no sense."

I finally turn around, look him in the eye. "News flash, College Boy: life is senseless."

The dog whines and the guy looks down at him and then back at me, face softens a little, yeah, he's figuring it out.

"Now you're getting it. What's your name?"

"I think I prefer 'College Boy.'"

"Your call. You got a pretty big stick up your ass for someone who sucks guys off in dive bars."

I see his jaw tighten; looks good. I feel the wave of anger roll off him; feels even better. But the ice doesn't crack, surprises me a little. "Yes, it would appear so."

"I'm-"

He holds a hand up, fast. "No. I have no interest - I don't want to know."

I shrug. "You a head case?"

"Evidently."

"You like it?"

"This is not about me," he says, anger finally starting to break through, cracks in the ice.

"You're the one doing it. I'm thinking it's probably about you."

He snaps. Knew he would: guy's wired tight. Shoves me against a wall so hard it knocks the breath out of me. Nose to nose, his fist in my collar, in a voice that sounds like a dog's growl, he says, "This. Is. Not. About. Me."

"Who's it about then?"

He stares at me for a long time. I'm getting harder by the second; hope he feels it. I see on his face the second it registers. His jaw tightens and he grinds his hips against mine, slow and hard and it's a real... good... hurt.

"It would appear to be about you after all," he says, all back in control again. He lets me go and starts to walk away.

"I think it's all about you, College Boy."

He whirls back around so fast I'm almost impressed. Face to face again, he says, still in that low growl, "You're playing with fire."

"I been burned by the devil's spawn, man. Been fucked up, down, over, and sideways by him, and he never looked back. Ain't nothing you can do to me that even comes close. I can take you."

He leans down and suddenly there's a knife in his hand. Oh, Jesus. My boner's out of control now. "Do you think so?"

"Fuckhead. Pain is good. Pain gives you a place in the world."

He frowns, looks like he's thinking hard. He lets me go again. Doesn't put the knife away. He looks down at it, looks back at me. "And what about... death?"

"No pain there." I drop my cigarette butt on the ground, crush it under the toe of my boot.

"No pain there," he says, quiet and hoarse. He turns the knife over in his hands and then leans down to tuck it back into his boot. "Life, then, in your philosophy, is an adequate punishment for most sins."

I push away from the wall, spit sideways. "Life's the ultimate joke of creation, the last laugh. Death's the only way to cheat it, only way to win."

"You evidently consider lemmings to be an evolutionary apex."

"I'd be more impressed if they killed each other, but taken all in all, I'd have to go with you on that one." I light another cigarette, shift my dick in my pants, start walking again. This time looks like he doesn't even think twice. He starts walking too.

"So you a whore?" I ask after a couple blocks. "You do this for money?"

"No," he says after a few seconds.

"To which part?"

"Both." He says that faster, more assured. More bullshit, like no one's ever called him on it.

"Everyone's a whore, College Boy. Everyone has something he'll sell his soul for. Some people it's money, some people it's fame, some people it's models and limousines -"

"And for some people it's other people," he says, voice all remote again. "I misspoke. To answer your questions, then, yes. And no."

I unscrew the lid of the whiskey bottle, take a pull, offer it to him. He looks at it for a few seconds and then shakes his head. "That... would dull the... pain."

"Hell, yeah. That way when it comes back, it hits even harder. Two for the price of one and if you're lucky you get a hangover on top of it."

He looks startled for a second and then takes the bottle, downs two or three good swallows, wipes his mouth on his coat sleeve before he hands it back to me. Between us it's empty by the time the motel's in sight.


	3. i wouldn't leave it up

**H** e unlocks the door, switches on the light, pulls off his baseball cap and tosses it at the dresser. It hits the floor instead. He runs a hand through a generous head of black hair, very short on the sides, spiked long and unevenly on top, as he moves to turn on the air conditioner. It cranks to life with rattles and creaks; the noise mutes but doesn't drown out the moans and thuds coming from a neighbouring room. He turns around, grins at me and runs his hand through his hair again. He must see me staring: he says, "Mohawks are hell to keep up."

"Ah. I - I imagine so."

He shrugs and rolls his eyes. Diefenbaker snorts disgustedly; I look around and see a battered ice bucket, which I fill in the bathroom sink and put down for him.

I was certain Diefenbaker wouldn't be permitted on the premises; my companion, however, simply snarled at the desk clerk and nothing further was said about health regulations vis-à-vis dogs. Or wolves.

Diefenbaker finishes his drink, looks around the room, and, without further comment, squeezes beneath the bed.

My companion is shedding his tattered sweater. He nods at me. "You too. Get naked."

"I don't believe-"

"You're not getting it, College Boy. This is how it works: play a gig, get a groupie, get drunk, get naked, screw, pass out, wake up, do it again. You're not a groupie but on the other hand you give great head. So get naked. I'm not in the mood to argue."

"I don't think I _owe_ -"

"You said you fuck, you suck, here's your chance." He pulls off the T-shirt that was beneath the sweater, revealing a chest that is evenly, lightly furred with dark hair, and stands, legs apart, and grins at me, unexpectedly enticing. He exerts a certain... pull. The pull is increased tenfold with his next words: "You're hot and you have a world-class ass. Okay, might be a few roaches here, but it has to beat fucking bathroom floors."

I feel my lips quiver in a responsive smile despite my resolve. "That would depend on the... floor." I feel suddenly, oddly, irresponsible and even lighthearted: the effects of the alcohol, I imagine.

He grins more broadly as he sits on the end of the bed to unbuckle his boots. "If I were you I'd take my chances with the roaches."

"You are, of course, motivated by pure altruism."

"Absolutely. Absofuckinlutely." He stands again, unfastening his pants. His eyes hold a challenge; my hands go, almost of their own accord, to pull off my coat. He nods and unzips his pants. I sit on the bed to remove my own boots, a legitimate reason to not watch him. He's all man, disconcertingly so, with a sort of raw charisma that appeals to more than one facet of my personality. I push the thought away: it has no bearing on the matter at hand. It is imperative that I maintain both distance and control.

He drops his pants over my coat, draped on the back of the chair by the dresser and walks back to the bed, where he stands for a moment, deliberately, I'm certain, in my space. I look up: his groin is almost eye level. He's half hard. The urge to taste again is very... strong. I drop my second boot to the floor without looking down again.

"Suck me," he says, his voice thick, his hands moving to pull my head towards him. I go willingly. Eagerly, in fact, and that is both frightening and exhilarating. It was anonymity I thought I valued: was it a deeper fear? Bathroom stalls are, after all, fairly cut and dried: either one's services are desired or they are not and if they are not, one simply waits until they are or one leaves.

He tastes of musk and sweat, overlaid with leather and the slightly bitter tang of residual semen. His penis is swelling, slowly, in my mouth. My position, a half crouch, allows for no flexibility so I slide off the bed to my knees, a quick motion that evidently takes him by surprise: his hands tighten in my hair. After a moment he relaxes again and shoves his penis, now fully erect, deep inside my mouth. I put one hand behind him to steady myself and begin suckling in earnest, surprising myself with one eager sound, muffled by the flesh in my mouth, quickly stifled.

It takes him much longer to approach climax tonight than it did in the bar bathroom where we met: alcohol, obviously, and possibly drugs, although I detected no trace of such in his bearing or his eyes. He is curiously silent, still keeping the noises in the back of his throat although here there is no real need for quiet or discretion.

His scrotum tightens beneath my thumb, braced around the base of his penis. A short harsh whispered command is followed by a tug on my hair: "Enough!"

I look up at him, startled out of my near-reverie, his deep voice overriding, again, the insidious, omnipresent golden whispers in my head. He pulls backwards and I follow the motion of his body almost automatically. He pulls my hair again, stopping me short.

"Enough," he says, louder this time. "Suck, fuck, we've done the suck, let's do the fuck. Your mouth is fantastic, man, I gotta tell you. I'm betting your ass is even better."

I stare up at him, confused, slower to respond than is my wont. He stares back, a half smile awry, and I release his penis, slowly, reluctant to be drawn back into myself and out of him.

"Get with the program, College Boy. Not used to whiskey, eh?"

The familiar syllable, so seldom heard, even at the Consulate, recalls me to myself, and I stand, pulling myself up, braced against his hand. The appellation is beginning to wear thin but is better, after all, than the alternative, than the breaking down of yet another barrier, the exchange of names imbued, now, with an import even I recognize is ridiculous and irrational, but the echoes of long dead custom and superstition surrounding same have left their marks in my soul: she called me by name, and I her, and the power thus assayed was both dangerous and abused.

He raises an eyebrow, a challenging look on his face: he is naked and I am still dressed save for my boots and socks. One hand, reluctant, goes to the buttons on my shirt. Too slowly: he pushes my hand aside with an impatient mutter and skims his hands down, miraculously popping none of them

"Get the lead out," he says, turning his attention to my jeans. "You backing out?"

"No," I say harshly. I am many things, but cowardly is not one.

"You're not looking too happy."

"This isn't about me," I say, even more harshly. He rolls his eyes, steps back a foot or two, stroking his erection almost idly, certainly lasciviously.

"As long as part of it's about me, what the fuck ever, College Boy." He watches, frank curiosity on his face, as I remove my outer layers. "I knew you were the boxers type. I win."

"What?" I ask, folding both shirt and jeans and placing them on the chair, curious despite myself: his humour is edgy, vicious at times, but compelling all the same.

"Your ass. Ass." He looks around, momentarily at a loss, oddly vulnerable for a split second. "Fuck. I'm packing nothing but Vaseline."

"I - I am, as you say, 'packing,'" I say after a moment, reaching down against the chair, into my jacket pocket.

He takes the supplies from me, the sardonic grin firmly in place again. "Thought you said you weren't on the prowl."

"I wasn't. Tonight." I jerk my head at the bed. "Not with D - not with my-"

"He doesn't like it?"

"He's not overly tolerant, no."

He rolls his eyes again and jerks his head at the bed, an uncanny echo. "Okay, let's go, let's get a move on here."

I frown; this is unfamiliar and panic begins to curl upwards in a small weak spiral, like smoke on a hazy humid day. "On-"

"The bed, College Boy, it's fucking, okay, not rocket science." The condom wrapper rustles as he tears it open.

"I've - I'm accustomed to, ah, standing-"

"Oh, Jesus. You sure you've done it at all, Pretty Boy?"

I nod once, grimly.

"Down. On your stomach. Spread 'em." He's matter-of-factly rolling the condom on, matter-of-factly issuing instructions, and I feel an odd wave of gratitude: this situation is beyond my ken but common sense is not, and the panic dissipates as quickly as it had begun to accumulate.

He grabs the waistband of my boxers as I pass him, snaps it hard. The sting is welcomed: it cuts through the haze still clouding my brain. "Off, off, off, we can't fuck through cotton." He pulls me, turns me, and then inhales sharply. Less than a second later I feel a blunt fingertip on my back, midway down, too close to my spine, probing. "Jesus H. Christ. Where the hell'd that come from?"

"My... partner. It was an accident." My words are clipped, brusque; I pull my boxers down, step out of them, thankful that my partial erection has subsided.

He touches it again, tracing the outline, his calloused fingertip scratching, tickling. "Your partner? Fuck that. Here I thought I'd seen the last word in backstabbing cunts. Jesus. You beat the shit out of him?"

"No."

"No way." He puts his whole hand against my back and strokes the scar with the pad of his thumb, rough skin there too.

"He saved me... from an obsession."

"What does he do for an encore, slice and dice?"

"No. He thought I was in danger. And... I was."

"Yeah." He laughs sharply, incredulously. "From him."

"Obsessions... need to be conquered."

"You don't get it, man. You don't _get over_ obsessions, you never get over them. If you're lucky, they leave you."

"Mine wanted me to come with her."

"Mine left."

"Would you have gone with him?"

"If I'd known he was leaving, I'd have killed him myself."

I twist slightly to look over my shoulder at him. "That's a healthy approach."

"And you're the fucking poster boy for the Canadian Mental Health Association."

"There is that."

After a short silence, his thumb still moving mechanically over my scar, he says, "I waited."

I look away from him, too quickly. After a few seconds I nod. Despite myself, I add, "I waited for her too."

"Almost two years." He seems almost to be talking to himself.

I take a breath, deep, unsteady. "Ten."

"Shit." A long, low whistle, almost admiring, follows the expletive. "And she came back?"

"Yes."

"Then why the hell aren't you with her?"

I jerk my head backwards. His thumb stops moving, presses inward slightly. I wince, more from the memory of pain than from any actual physical effect.

"Jesus. Why didn't you go after her?"

"Why didn't you go after him?"

"Shut up, fuckhead." His voice is back, full, deep throated. He shoves me towards the bed. "Damn you, fucking talking instead of fucking fucking." I look back at him: he is stroking his penis, still sheathed in latex, hard and fast, a vicious twist to his lips, as he restores his erection to full strength.

"Down," he says, almost a bark. "You said you suck and fuck, put your fucking money where your goddamn mouth is." He pushes me again, one step closer to the bed. Diefenbaker pokes his head out and looks at me. I shake my head, and he disappears again with a grumble and a thud; but his concern warms me.

"Sorry, man," my companion says, unexpectedly, almost in my ear. He sounds genuinely apologetic. "Didn't mean to upset him."

Diefenbaker pokes his nose out again and huffs once before withdrawing it.

"Apology accepted." Without further ado, I pull the covers back and lay down on my stomach, per instructions.

The bed gives beneath his weight: he nudges my legs further apart and kneels between them. I hear the flip top of the lubricant being snapped open; the sound is followed, a few seconds later, by a cool drizzle trickling down and past my anus, a stark cold reminder of my nudity and... my vulnerability. Shockingly my penis begins to fill; I ignore it resolutely, willing arousal away.

His fingers, blunt, calloused, spread me wide. I breathe out as he pushes in, consciously relaxing the muscles one by one. Unlike most men in my experience, he doesn't bother with fingers or other preliminaries, nor does he pause, nor does he alternate between press and retreat. He simply pushes, slowly, to be sure, but inexorably, leaving no doubt in my mind that I am being taken, possessed, no momentary reprieves from reality here.

He stops after a few inches but doesn't pull back. He rotates his hips, a unique feeling, and then pushes again, slightly harder, slightly faster, his breathing picking up. The mattress gives slightly beneath my groin as he puts more weight on his knees. The sheets are soft beneath me, smooth, cool, warming slowly. He pushes hard once more, grunts sotto voce, rotates his hips again. I have a sudden hysterical thought related to screws, countersunk, but I stifle my nascent outburst successfully and remain still. The hair on his thighs is rough; it's a slightly scratchy sensation as he wedges himself between my legs, pushing them further apart. The friction on my erection, caused by the pressure of his body bearing mine down into the bed, is unwelcome and too pleasant. I tense, deliberately, and the burning sensation increases, feeding my tension, a feedback spiral.

He growls and shoves, shifting his weight from side to side, the hair on his chest brushing my back. It's soft; his chest is warm. I shift too and then catch myself: the press of the sheets against my penis is inescapable and the temptation to create friction is almost irresistible. I compensate by tensing again, squeezing my gluteal muscles, reentering the spiral of tension and pain.

He gasps, a sharp indrawn breath, almost pained, and then, startlingly, I feel his teeth at the back of my neck. My reciprocal gasp is almost entirely surprise but arousal, unwanted, unwilling, snakes through me. I bite my tongue, my lip, the inside of my cheek, clear and painful reminders of the weakness flesh is heir to. He bites me again and then licks my neck, a long slow stroke straight up into my hair line, close shorn, and follows it with another. I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to move, to arch up into that warm wet tongue, to arch back against that heat and hardness stretching me, invading me, filling me, and I stop myself from doing so by sheer force of will.

He exhales, a rough, impatient sound.

"You know, you could move, College Boy. I'm not into necrophilia. I mean, okay, there's one guy I could get it up for, alive or dead, but you're not him."

I feel cold rage, hot lust, and more swell behind my eyes. I open them, stare sightlessly at the pillow, white and blank and smooth. One breath. Two. "Ben," I say quietly, harshly, my jaw tense. I feel his breath, hot on my neck, smell smoke and whiskey as he opens his mouth.

"All right, Ben," he says, still in the same low voice. "Move. You got a hot ass. Use it." He punctuates his command with another thrust, one that leaves us fully joined. Defiant, I push backwards; he pulls me back hard so that my legs come under me and I'm braced on my hands and knees. "Now you're getting it. Jesus."

He pulls out, almost completely, and then shoves his body forward so hard that I almost fall. It feels curiously - good. Alive. Wanton. Bad.

Very bad.

He shoves again and this time I'm ready and meet him and even push back. He grunts and pulls me against him. "That's it. Christ, you're hot."

He doesn't wait for a response; instead he begins to move, more slowly than I expected. He seems to be in no hurry and that makes a bad situation worse: my body begins to respond, I begin to respond, due no doubt to the unaccustomed influence of alcohol. He grunts again, approval evident, and begins to move in and out more quickly, the depth of his strokes reinforced by the rough rhythmic brush of pubic hair against me, by the response of my body-

Oh, God.

I must-

I have to-

Instinctively I tighten muscles I didn't know I had, meeting him more than halfway, trying - trying - pushing him towards the edge and over it, I hope, before I fall myself, halfway to redemption, watching my improbable salvation moving further away from me, my heartbeat drowning out the slick sounds of flesh on flesh, the terror in my gut spreading fast now, hurtling us both at the cliff's edge. I growl, a savage sound, taking over the rhythm completely, forcing myself against him, on him, over and over and over and over...

"Fuuuuck!" His low-voiced moan startles me. He slams hard into me and holds me against him as he jerks, over and over and over. With a sense of relief out of all proportion to the physical sensation, I feel the cliff's edge recede and I breathe again, my vision clearing. Pulling me with him, he collapses on one side, panting hard. "Yeah. Hot ass."

I move slightly and he shifts with me, one hand moving from my hip down to-

I twist away, quickly, disengaging us, rolling onto my stomach, effectively preventing intimate touch.

"You come?" he asks, sleepily, lazily... amused.

"Isn't this the part where you pass out?" I say in as acerbic a tone as I can muster.

He chuckles and slides over, moving partially on top of me. " _We_ pass out," he says against my neck. "Remember the part after that?"

"I think my debt is-"

"Ben? You talk too fucking much." He moves further onto me, reaching for the light switch. The room is plunged into blood-tinged darkness, courtesy of the red neon sign across the street. The air conditioner continues to creak and rattle; beneath the bed, Dief sighs.

He shifts again, suddenly, swearing. His hand slides between us and I tense; then I realise he's removing the condom. "Is there a goddamned garbage can in here?" he mutters.

I reach up to switch on the light and hear a wet-sounding splat.

"Three points," he says into my neck. "Enjoying those blue balls?"

"It's not about-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He hooks a determined leg around both of mine and pulls himself further on top of me, pinning me, rather effectively, to the bed. Oddly I am not uncomfortable. His breathing evens out quickly and soon his grip relaxes and so does his leg. I could leave now. I should.

Yet I don't.

And I ignore the voice jeering at me in my head. He wants me to stay. Wants, in fact, me. Or, at any rate, my body, probably as a substitute for the man whose name is never mentioned and whose presence seems to colour every thought my companion has; and while that should hurt it does not. It is, in a sense, a relief, even a vindication. I shift slightly; his arm tightens and he makes a noise in his throat. I shift again and close my eyes. Sleep comes quickly, thick and dreamless.


	4. somebody else's standards

**I** come awake fast, sour taste in my mouth. Cheap whiskey, cheaper beer, no coke: haven't scored yet here, probably won't by now, so my head's clear.

He's still here; surprises me a little. Wired tight, snapped shut and locked up. After the way he took off out of the bar, I figured odds were at least even he'd do a replay once I was out last night.

He's the one out now, though. Still on his stomach, doesn't look like he's moved since last night, and way way sacked. He doesn't even twitch when I roll off him and the bed. Cold on my foot scares the shit out of me until I remember his dog: look down and there's just a nose, sniffing me. Wrong foot so the nose disappears again and the dog grumbles a little.

I squint at the clock. _Way_ too fucking early to be up. I take a leak and hit the sack again. This time he moves a little when I crawl back on top of him: turns his head to the other side of the pillow, sighs, and goes all boneless again.

I find the scar on his back by touch. Goddamn nasty fucking hole. Bullet hole. I'd be willing to bet the bullet's still in there. Wonder if that's better or worse: better, probably, carry your pain with you that way, all the time. Real pain, real reminder, constant, something I don't have. Fucker. Hope he appreciates it. That's a golden gift, silver bullet.

Glad he stayed, though. Been a while since I had a good solid fuck and I'm thinking he'll be up for another round or two before he takes off. Never fucked in a bed. That's pretty funny. Done my share of cruising these past few years but before that it was all bed, all the time. Bed or van, blow jobs backstage, whatever, but we always found a bed to grope and dope on, suck and fuck on, even if it was just a dirty stained mattress in the basement of a band house. Didn't matter, never did, not when it was us. Ended up we didn't matter, so that was a whole fucking goddamned lie. Live the lie. Live and learn. Live and learn the lie.

Still, I miss the bed. Been way too fucking long. Years. Too fucking weird to be in bed with a guy. With a guy like this. With a guy more fucked up than-

 _Obsessions need to be conquered_ , he said. Fucker. He's new at this obsession gig. It's old tunes for me, like playing in a fucking cover band. He's got a lot to learn. Thinks he's going to learn it sucking guys off in bars and fucking them in parks; thinks his shit can be 'conquered,' controlled, whatever. He's a control freak, yeah, I got that part, Mr. Fucking Blue Balls. He doesn't get that control's a two way street; so's obsession. When the obsession leaves, it's over, it doesn't control you any more. Not unless you let it, not if you pick up and walk away and never look back.

"Why didn't you go after him?"

Fuckhead. See, that's what he doesn't get. It has to come after you. You go after it, it's controlling you, you're the obsessee instead of the obsessor. If you stay away, you're it, you're the giant, you're ten feet tall and the obsession's nothing, truer words were never written, Mr. Tallent, nothing at all. You have to kick it in the ass and walk away, or you get kicked in the ass. Either way it's over for good then.

Stray lyrics in my head: What do you get for believing in freedom, what do you get for preaching 'bout love? Fame and glory, prestige and honour, and a bullet in the back of the head. Fucking sixties refugees but I could rework it easy, make it real, about fame and greed and fucking viper-tongued betrayal, stolen time and shattered windshields and bloody lips and bruised knuckles, and that fucking _unreal_ smile through it all...

He moves under me, grunts a little, opens one eye. Opens his mouth too, slides that tongue between his lips. Pretty mouth. Pretty hot. I lean in to lick his lips too, flick my tongue against his.

He goes rigid under me, starts to struggle, and I push him down, hold him there, lick him again, openmouthed. He says something probably obscene into my mouth and heaves under me. Pretty damn funny: he can suck and fuck total strangers and draws the line at swapping spit? I can't hold back the laugh so I have to let his mouth go.

He just stares at me, dirty fucking look, and then one corner of his mouth shivers a little and then, boom, just like that it's gone and he's laughing with me and all of the sudden he's back inside his body and his eyes are warm and alive and open... and pretty fucking breathtaking. Not sure what the deal is, where this guy came from, but he beats the hell out of Dead Boy last night so fuck gift horses, I can go with this.

"It wasn't that exactly," he says when he gets his breath back. "It was-"

"Bullet-related?"

Quick intake of breath and then he nods, his eyes a little wide, little surprised. I roll mine. "Whatever." The corner of his mouth moves again in that funny little sideways smile. I feel myself grin back, can't help it.

I shove at his shoulder and he rolls onto his back. I move in on top of him again, face to face now, and I lick my own lips. He grins again, goes all the way to his eyes for once, and this time he leans in to lick me back, kiss me, suck my tongue, and damn, my dick decides to forget about the 'up 'til three' part and just go with the 'up' idea; his too, feels like, starting to get hard against my hip. So I rock against him and he rocks right back and groans into my mouth. Jesus, been so long and feels so good, hard muscle under my hand, soft skin, no hair, little tight nipples, just like...

He jerks under me when I rub my thumb across one and grabs my ass and pulls me in harder, closer, breaks the kiss, arches his head back with an explosive little sound.

I know what that means: I lean in to lick his neck all the way down to his collarbone and then I tongue it good and start sucking. He moans again and moves one hand up my back to my neck, holding me there, arching under me, so I go for it, all the way, bite him, suck harder and harder and I know when it goes past suck into sting because he goes rigid under me and decides to wake up everyone on this floor with a really loud "God!"

I can pick 'em. _Christ_ , can I pick 'em. Doesn't look anything like him. Acts _just_ like him in bed, once you get past the psycho Guilt Boy crap. Hot as hell, gorgeous as hell, responsive as hell and ready for the ride. I start driving for real: trail of hickeys up his collarbone. He's rubbing hard, harder, against me, making all kinds of noises, his dick slick on my belly. I hit the base of his throat for a big, sloppy one: right then he growls at me and heaves and rolls us over so he's on top and then he's going after me, sucking hard on my throat: teeth, lips, tongue all together, ending with a sting that makes my dick jump along with the rest of me. Jesus.

I push at him, arching my back and trying to get leverage to roll him back over and he grabs my wrist and hauls it up over my head, pins it into the pillow. Then he fucking licks my pit and bites me, makes me shudder up and down and I taste blood on my tongue, aftereffect of me trying not to make a sound. We always had to be quiet and this guy's so fucking noisy. I grab his other arm and try to twist it behind his back and the fucker laughs at me, twists his hand so he's got my wrist and then pulls that one up over my head too. And then... and then he fucking kisses me, long and dirty and deep, knows exactly what to do with that tongue. I go all limp under him, kiss him back, feel his fingers slack off on my wrists. I lull him a few more seconds - man's got a goddamn talented tongue - and then heave and roll hard. Took him by surprise: I'm back on top now.

We stare at each other a few seconds, both breathing heavy. I'm not sure if he's going to get angry. He doesn't: just looks at me and then finally smiles a little, flicks his tongue out, Jesus, goddammit can I pick 'em.

"What is your name?" he asks, and his voice is deep and thick and makes me want to tell him anything, everything, and I open my mouth and answer him before my brain even catches up.

"Joe."

"Hi, Joe."

Weird crazy fucker. I grin right back. "Hi, Ben. Who are you and what've you done with Guilt Boy?"

His face changes instantly and it feels like I just slammed into a brick wall. His hands fall off me, back on the bed and his eyes go haunted and pain-filled for a split second before they fill up with blankness. No. Oh, no. Bad move. Worse move: shifts away from my dick and tries to pull out from under me. I grab him by the wrists now, bear down, all my weight on top of him. Goddamn crazy fucked up _fuckhead_. He twists under me but I got gravity on my side, gravity and determination. He starts to breathe faster, his chest moving up and down. He feels good under me, looks better. I look him in the eye, long challenge. He stares back at me, blank and cold. Fun games.

More fun games: I lean in to lick one nipple, then the other, look back up at him. His mouth is all thin tightlipped now, not letting a sound out. He tries to twist his wrists out of my hands again but I'm ready for it. I grin the wickedest grin I can at him and lean in for a nipple again. I suck it this time, suck it and then blow, and he chokes, twists and heaves. Yeah, way the fuck better: I should've tried this in the first place. I go for it, suck, bite, blow across it, suck again, and he arches under me, moans, harsh strangled noise. God, he feels good, tastes good, so I lick across to his other nipple, go to work on it.

I'm getting into it and suddenly he twists again, takes me by surprise, the fucker, gets one wrist free. He grabs the hair at the back of my head and pulls on it, pulls damn hard. I laugh against his chest and bite him. He pulls harder; I suck his nipple into my mouth and bite it. He pulls; I bite. He makes another one of those weird fucking strangled noises, lets go of my hair. Next thing I feel is his hand on my throat and then there's his thumb, pressing hard on the artery, his hand closing on my windpipe, Jesus Christ, trying to choke me, bet he wishes he'd kept that knife handy. He tries to push me up and I bite him again. His hand closes harder on my throat, getting harder to breathe, edges of my vision starting to go black, tunnel ahead. I let go with my teeth, suck again, let's see who can go the distance.

"I warned you," he says between his teeth, and growls a little, shakes me a little.

"Devil's spawn," I choke out. "Ain't even close."

He stares at me, mad, but his fingers relax a little and my tunnel gets wider.

"Just-" his face twists, stark pain for a split second, " _fuck_ me, damn it. That's all-"

"Exactly where I'm headed, Ben. _My_ way."

"I don't want-"

" _You_ don't want? It's not about you, remember?" I lean down, catch the nipple again, swirl my tongue around it, and he moans, loud, mouth wide open, hand falling away - finally! - from my neck, down to my shoulder to grab me, hold me there while he pushes under me. I let go of his other wrist, slide my hand under his back to pull him closer, suck him harder.

"God," he whispers, and it's a broken, cracked sound. "It's - it's not-"

I raise my head, look him right in the eye. "Guilt Boy, news flash: it's a lot more fun if you're alive."

He stares back, but his eyes aren't blank any more, they're warm and haunted and angry and I could write a goddamn song about 'em if I wasn't too fucking busy... fucking. Trying to fuck. I lean forward, fall into those eyes, into his mouth, warm, wet, open.

"No," he whispers into my mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," I whisper back right before I go for his tonsils. Few minutes of hot tongue action, humping his belly, feeling him hump me right back, our dicks getting slicker and slicker, and he's moaning, he's hungry hungry hungry, shading into starving desperate destitute. Then he moves both hands down to my ass, spreads his legs wide under me, and shoves me up against him, urgent rhythm. I let myself ride him a few minutes: I know this, I know me, so I let him go, let him think he's driving us. When I hit my limit, it's easy enough to reach down between us, grab his dick, pull the focus back to him.

He makes a startled sound, a clichéd 'Oh!' but doesn't try to pull away. Instead he scrabbles on the nightstand, one-handed, for the lube and condoms.

"Not yet," I say, grabbing them and dropping them on the bed. "Not even fucking close."

"Damn it," he says, and he sounds frustrated, angry. "Just-"

"Just shut up," I say, and slide right down him, suck his dick into my mouth, fast, hard, let my teeth scrape on the intake.

Been a while, a long while, since I've done this, and I don't want to go there, think about that, that T-shirt's been burned and the ashes drowned in the fucking Pacific Ocean. 'Course he tastes different, feels different, but the heavy weight and throb's familiar, yeah, and so's the smell, so's the feel, little thicker, not so long - with Billy I always bit off more than I could chew, right down to the end - but feels, tastes, smells enough the same to make it work. Works for him: he makes a queer little whimper right before he grabs my head with both hands and starts fucking my mouth.

I let him go, let him have it: he'll come back to his senses in a few, soon as Guilt Boy kicks back in. Sure enough, he jerks, his dick getting even harder, and then freezes, pulling at my hair, trying to pull me off. I let him slick right out and his dick pops out of my mouth and bounces off his belly, looks fucking hilarious. But then dicks are pretty stupid-looking to begin with, and hard dicks are twice as funny.

He's breathing hard, fast, and I get a little shock, little snake in the pit of my stomach when I look at his eyes again. Haunted, nothing: pure anguish, pain plus pleasure, way more than he expected, me either. I almost look away while I open the condom wrapper but I don't: that'd be cheating, we're in this together. So I watch him, he watches me, only sounds in the room his breathing and the crackle of plastic and then the snap of latex.

He reaches down next to him for the lube, flips the top open, holds it out to me. He doesn't smile.

"Put it on me," I say, and I don't smile either. That's right, Guilt Boy, we're both in this.

He blinks, once, a little startled, then leans up on an elbow. He doesn't look at my face: he stares at my dick, serious, intent, while he drizzles some lube into his free hand, and then he leans forward a little to wrap one warm, slick hand around me. He jacks me a few times, and then finally looks back up at me, but he doesn't let my dick go, just holds it.

"More," I say, not moving. "You too."

"I don't need-"

"Christ on a crutch, will you give it a fucking _rest_? More, Ben, right now, me and you."

His lips narrow into a thin line but he rubs a little more on me, tight over the head, then drops his hand to the sheet and wipes it off.

"Have it your way, fuckhead," I say, and I push his legs apart, haul him up onto my thighs, rub the head of my dick up against his ass.

He looks at me, bare glimmer of smug, and I catch onto his game in the nick of time, he could give William fucking Boisy a run for his money on the button-pushing front. I hold up my left hand, give him the finger, then stick it in my mouth, swirl it around, pull it out and, still holding his eyes, shove the finger up his ass. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second and opens them again to stare at me: pissing contest.

That's how it's going to be, huh? I slide my finger in and out, in further, twist it a little, rub my dick up there too. Goddamn fuckhead: never had to do this with Bill, but he's a whole lot more stubborn than Billy. Wouldn't think it was possible, not two on the same planet, you'd think the world'd spontaneously combust or something, but there you have it, and me, I'm so fucking lucky I run across _both_ of them in the _same_ goddamn lifetime.

Soon as I twist the second finger around and in, he moans, yeah, there we go, there we are. I pull my fingers out, stick my dick in, steady, pushing harder than I did last time. He's pretty tight, tighter than I expected from a suck and fuck pickup from a bar. He tightens his ass a little - he did that last time too - but I keep up the pressure, and finally he gives in, loosens up, pushes down.

"There you go," I say, my voice shading into husky because, Jesus, he's even hotter than before. I got one hand under his ass, one on his hip, and I let myself go for a few thrusts, almost all the way out, all the way back in. On about the fourth one he moans and tightens way down on me. More games. "What the hell is your problem, Ben?"

He chokes a little, whites of his eyes showing. "I don't want - don't do-"

"You don't want this?" I pull all the way out, lean back. "There's the door. Been there all along."

His face twists but his eyes are back now and they're still hungry. He doesn't move. I grin at him, shove back in.

"I - I don't-"

"You do too fucking want it, so get the hell out of your fucked up head and-"

"You don't know," he hisses, angry, moves under me a little.

"I know _this_ ," I say, and grab his dick hard. "I can see this, Guilt Boy, I can feel _this_. What the hell's _this_ about?"

Through clenched teeth, he grinds out, "Normal... normal physical response to... to external stimuli..."

He makes me laugh, goddamn fucked up fucker. Makes me laugh out loud. I twist my hand up and over the head of his dick, shove my dick harder into his ass, pump, his dick and mine, a couple times. "Internal too," I say, getting all the way inside him and then holding still, feeling him warm and tight around me, feeling those funky little twitches and pulses around me.

He starts to laugh and then chokes when I start moving my hand on his dick again. His eyes close and he arches his back a little, makes my dick jump. Nah, he doesn't want this, unh-unh, no way. Condom's enough to back me down a little but I got to get a grip, neck and neck race here. Dick and dick, more like, and he knows how to work that ass, worked it last time, pushed me over way before I was ready, got to watch him, got to stop him, got to win this time, got to show him the lies in his soul: you have to face those lies, embrace that pain, that's the only way out.

That and a bullet.

And he's already got that, the fucker. He'll get this too, if I have to beat it out of him. I move my hand faster on his dick. He moans, curves his back, shoving himself onto me, working with me now, thrust for thrust, good solid rhythm carrying over into his dick in my fist.

He opens his eyes again, jaw all clenched tight, ass tightening again around me, doing it on purpose: every time I pull out, he tightens down, trying to push me, push me over the edge. I stop dead for a minute, just rammed up inside him while I keep jacking him, beat it out of him, hell yeah, beat him the hell off, harder and faster.

His eyes go wide and he makes a noise that sounds like a soul being ripped in half: I know that sound, know that sound from the inside out. He claws up, blind, and I grab his hand with mine while I keep pumping with the other. He grabs me so hard I swear I feel a bone crack, and the next second his dick is spitting white gobs, high and hard, and his ass is out of control, spasming around me, sweet fucking Christ it feels like nothing on this earth...

He's breathing hard, panting, one arm across his eyes. He's still got my hand in a death grip. I move a little inside him and he moans, jerks, one last little drizzle comes out of his dick onto my hand, add to the mess there, one last little spasm around me.

"God..." he says, broken whisper, shaky voice, "... damn it..."

I'm shaking now, I feel it starting deep inside me, gonna ride it out, gonna come hard, so hard... "So fucking good," I say, fucking him, finally, for real, in and out, slapping my balls right up against his ass every time. Nothing like it, nothing like it, ride it, man, ride the pleasure right over into the fucking pain and wipe out.

He moves his arm, opens his eyes, looks right into my soul, all the way down, he knows it now, knows that pleasure/pain, he's got it nailed now. He moves that hand to my other hand, the messy one, and the fucker fucking... grins, all sharp toothed and not happy at all, grins when he feels the stickiness there. He turns my hand over and then shoves himself up on my dick and pulls me forward, all in one motion. Takes my sticky hand, puts all my fingers in his mouth, and sucks, too gentle, his tongue moving over my fingers, warm and wet and sloppy, sucking me in, sucking it out of me, and I'm over the edge, buried in his ass and in his mouth, coming forever and ever, white hot sparks behind my eyes fading into blood red afterimages.


	5. fall in, sink or swim

**I** stare at nothing, at myself, at the mirror of my soul, for what seems like a very long time. It took me a long time, too long, to catch my breath: in a sensation reminiscent of a recurring nightmare, I was unable to breathe. But this time I was awake, no relief to be found in the shuddering gasps that herald the return to consciousness.

He raised himself and stared at me, frowning, and struck me once across the face, admonishing me to change suppliers. As soon as I had breath enough to correct his misapprehension, I tried to do so, but he waved me off, grinning knowingly - "Yeah, yeah, yeah," and disposed of the second condom as matter-of-factly as he had disposed of the first, earlier. "Whatever it takes to get you through, man," he said, and there was no condemnation in his voice, only a sort of resigned fellow-feeling that made me almost more uncomfortable - and comfortable - than the original assumption.

I thought there were many paths leading to punishment and few to redemption. But there never were, not really, because in the end it's fear, only fear, that keeps people on those paths. And now I am empty, drained of fear, curiously at peace, resigned, finally, to the truth: this is no redemption and never was. A truce, or perhaps, a ceasefire, has been called over my battlefield. And the pain... the pain is bearable now. He lied.

His breathing evens out quickly and he begins to relax. I ask, then, softly, "What do you want?"

His leg tightens fractionally but his body remains relaxed as he says, good-naturedly, "Shut the fuck up, Ben. Don't make me tie you up and gag you."

"Is that what you want?"

He chuckles, his whole body moving with it, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside him. "When I wake up. That's a promise."

I wait until he is almost asleep and I whisper, again, "What do you want, Joe?"

He sighs, again a sound that comes from deep inside him. "All of it." After a few moments he says, so quietly I'm not sure if he's awake or asleep, "All of him." He turns his head slightly; his breath stirs the hair behind my ear. "All over again."

Second chances. The bitterness in my soul overwhelms me in a sudden, shocking, choking tide that makes me swallow and cough. He mutters irritably, "What? Shutthefuckup. Fuckhead."

I'm hardly aware of my muscles tensing, my arm tightening around him. Nor am I aware, really, of opening my mouth and saying to him the words that must be said. "There is no going back."

"I know," he says in a grumble. "Asshole. Obvious much? Only one way to go, with or without him, and that's down." A long pause. "Take him down with me."

" _Very_ well adjusted."

He laughs, an oddly rich sound. "I'm saying."

"Would that... settle it?"

His answer's immediate, his voice clear and awake again. "For good."

"What would you do for a second chance?"

"Hock my soul. Maybe even sell it."

"Is it worth it?"

"You tell me, Bullet Boy."

A long, long moment, a tight swirling red darkness punctuated with flashes of light and sounds and above all that voice, haunting me still: "Come with me!"

When I open my eyes he's raised his head and is watching me curiously. I force the words out, unevenly, unclear. "My standards are not yours."

"Again with the obvious."

"Then. no. Not if - not if the cost is your soul."

He shifts on his elbow, restless; but he meets my eyes finally, his own wide and blue and rife with innumerable ghosted might-have-beens. "What good's a soul in hell?"

"At least you have one."

"A hell or a soul?"

"Yes."

"You ever shut up?"

"Yes."

"Good. Do it now."

"If you sell your soul, that would seem to obviate your _raison d'etre_. No soul, no pain."

"Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Pain is the _etre_. No fucking _raison_ about it."

"Ah. Nietszche."

"I don't care if it's Mikhail fucking Bakunin. You're not getting it. Or you're trying to piss me off and that's definitely working. We make our own hells. Some're worse than others. Choose yours and go there. I'm going to sleep. Say another word and I'll gag you with your own goddamn socks."

He feels me inhale, preparatory to answering him, and he lifts his head, knocks our foreheads together, hisses, "Sleep!" and slaps his hand over my mouth.

I allow myself to lick his palm, and I feel him grin against my shoulder in response. He moves his hand away, down to encircle my throat, a light pressure, welcomed.

"You're one of the rudest people I've ever met," I say quietly.

"Come to the gig tonight, I'll show you rude," he says. "Lucky for you I'm too tired to look for your fucking socks." He yawns then, his jaw cracking. His head, a heavy weight against my shoulder, gets heavier as he relaxes; his thigh remains sprawled across mine as he sinks into bonelessness.

I take pity on him and remain silent this time, staring at the ceiling, cracked in one corner, the crack defined by the bulbous outline of water damage. I close my eyes after a while and count snowflakes, falling in an endless swirl.

 _If that's all it takes_  
_Something I can't handle_  
_I wouldn't leave it up_  
_To somebody else's standards_

"Nickels For Your Nightmares," the Headstones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note the first:** the sixties refugees lyrics are from a song written by friends of my parents  
>  (known only as Lynne and Jimmy in family legend) in, surprise, the sixties. It's a damned funny song:
> 
>  _Chorus:_  
>  What do you get for believing in freedom  
> What do you get for preaching 'bout love  
> Fame and glory, prestige and honour  
> And a bullet in the back of the head
> 
> Lyrics:
> 
> JFK was an all right guy  
> when he was pres the taxes weren't so high  
> but he went to Dallas as Lyndon's guest  
> Someone had him picked off now can you guess?
> 
> Martin Luther King fought for the black man  
> And he got a bullet in the back, man,  
> While Nixon's alive and odious  
> Planning more Cambodias
> 
> I'm still trying to remember the first two lines of this verse but it ends:  
> Nixon's alive and well today  
> Wish I could say the same for Bobby K
> 
>  **Note the second:** realitycek has a gift for sending me Joe lyrics. Sometimes they're Joe/Fraser, sometimes they're Joe/Billy... but they're always Joe. Sadly Voice of the Beehive's Sex  & Misery is not available commercially any more, but thanks to realitycek and the late lamented Napster, I managed to scarf most of the songs from it anyway.
> 
> Thanks, r.


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